Stockholm Syndrome
by Stanislas Cordova
Summary: 25 years after J.D's death, Veronica Sawyer is back in Ohio. After having a traumatic high school experience, Veronica vowed to keep her daughter as far away as possible from danger. But instead 17 year old Ellis Sawyer becomes intertwined with a series of murders involving young women named Heather, an alluring arch-nemesis and a lethal attraction all her own.


I was never a fan of cop shows. Or crime movies. Give me a paperback murder-mystery thriller and I'll devour it in a day but I wouldn't choose one out for myself, that's for sure. The thing is; I'm surrounded by "justice" every waking moment. I practically live at the police station. I'm no juvenile delinquent; in fact my track-record is spotless. Pristine, really. I wouldn't call myself a stickler for the rules. I'm just not some thrill-seeking troublemaker. I suppose if your mother is the head chief-of-police, it comes naturally.

I never knew my father. Or met him. Technically, he was never my father then really. He and Mom never married. He's basically just the "sperm giver". He never gave much more than that, seeing as I am an only child. Mom says he left before I was even born. I don't know anything about him, not even his name. I don't care really. I do wonder what he looks like though, since I don't look much like my mother. She's a real looker, especially for someone of her age. I don't have low self-esteem or anything, but I do know my mother is prettier than me by a long-shot.

Anyway, about my father. All I know about him is that he was trouble with a capital T. Something Mom said she was always attracted to at my age, which explains the strict parole watch on any date I've ever had. Literally. She'll get one of the rookies to follow us to the movies. Extremely embarrassing. It's no wonder why I stay home a lot.

She doesn't admit but I think The Donor, or some other jerk she dated, is the reason why she decided to be a cop. She doesn't have some innate sense of justice. No. Something much more extravagant has been fueling her all these years to track 'em, catch 'em and book 'em. Perhaps, rage. Passion.

Or Revenge.

* * *

"Afternoon Miss Sawyer," Wade, the desk clerk, says, "Don't you ever get tired spending all your time here? Why, a police station is no place for a teenager to be hanging out in!"

I laugh, "Try telling my mom that, Wade. Speaking of Mom, did she leave me anything to do?"

The school year doesn't start for few more weeks so to keep my summer productive my mother assigns me some "police-in-training" work to do. They're nothing more than Nancy Drew mysteries. Who-dun-its to put it frank. Not actual cases but just brain teasers that will prepare me for my "future". I haven't figured out a way to break it to her yet, but sleuthing isn't for me. The only reason why I'm always at the station is because I have no where else to go. Staying home alone 24/7 may sound appealing to most but not me. I have an aching suspicion that home security isn't the only thing watching me. I'm not accusing my mom of spying on me but she has to admit she takes the whole safety thing a little too far.

There's the library, which I like. But a girl can only spend so much time in complete silence before she goes little nuts. I'm used to loud noises. Lots of talking. A busy city. It's a wonder why Mom decided to transfer to Cleveland rather than Chicago.

The police station isn't my first choice to spend most of my summer vacation at but it feels more like home than my actual house does.

"Actually, there is something you can help us out with," Wade says, "Follow me."

Wade snatches a manila folder, walks around his desk and leads me down the hall and into the main lobby. We stop near my mother's office. There's a boy, about my age or older, sitting next to the door.

"Him," Wade says matter-of-factly,"He's your next case."

"Excuse me? What am I supposed to do with a person?"

"Profile him. That right there is Mr. Clyde Wiley, age seventeen," he hands me the manila folder, "He's part of the new troubled youth outreach program. These kids are assigned to live with an officer for an entire school year. They scare them out of their delinquent ways and hopefully guide them into being future force members."

I flip through the file. It's about as long as Crime and Punishment (which ironically is my AP summer reading).

"So, which lucky bastard gets stuck with him?" I ask.

Wade shrugs, "I don't know, the chief didn't tell me. But she did say she wants you to get as much information on him as possible and conduct a report to give the officer assigned to him."

"Sure, why not?" I joke," Maybe I'll make a new friend!"

Wade smiles,"That's the spirit!"

I let him walk away. I didn't have the heart tell him that I am not a friendly person.

* * *

I spent the lunch hour wafting through Wiley's file. His mother was in a fatal train accident when he was ten. Two years prior to his first crime. He attended a private boarding school his junior year but was kicked out after making an ordained minister cry. Amazingly, his transcript has maintained a solid 3.0 all three years of high school.

From where I'm sitting, Wiley can't see me but I can see him. I give him a once (maybe twice) over. Tall, lean, dark brown hair and a crooked grin that's almost stuck in a perpetual smirk. I can see the confidence oozing out of him from over here. This will be at least ten times harder than the little riddles I've been solving for a while now. Sure, I enjoy a challenge but not if it involves making conversation with people my own age.

I glance over the file once more, collecting any last minute information I need and then I approach him.

"I'm Ellis Sawyer," I stick out my hand.

"Clyde Wiley," his grip is a little too tight but I ignore it," But I'm guessing you already know that."

"Destructive and deductive," I patronize, "Mind if I ask a few questions?"

He grins (which again unsettles me),"Not if I get to ask a few of my own."

"Deal. Follow me."

I lead him back to "my desk" which is actually Winston's. He's mom's partner, so he's out of town too. He doesn't mind me using his computer as long as I log into the guest account. He claims he's afraid I'll accidentally delete an important file, but I've checked his browser history before. I know what he's really hiding.

"So, what are you?" He leans back in his chair, "A reporter for the school newspaper?"

"A girl scout," I flip through his file, "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

"Indecent exposure," he chuckles, "Care for a live recap?"

I decide to humor him. I take out a small camera from my Winston's drawer (something else I'm not supposed to go through) and turn it on.

"I'm ready when you are," I say as I mess with the zoom.

He shakes his head," Alright, alright. I'm here for some outreach program for shit teenagers. I mean _troubled youth."_

He takes out a pack of camels and asks," Alright if I smoke?"

All for show. The kid is a James Dean wannabe and probably stole that pack from the 7/11 nearby. Two puffs and he'd probably have an asthma attack.

"Seeing that your twelve months away from the legal smoking age and that this is a _police station_, I'm going to go with no, it's not alright."

"What, you don't like the smell? What about the taste?" he licks his lips

"Yeah, cancer really turns me on," I deadpan.

I grab a red pen and jot down notes on a legal pad. He has Mommy issues, abusive alcoholic father, trouble with authority and a hard time making new friends.

"You were kicked out of your last school?"

"Yep. St. Peter's Catholic Academy," he says, "It's a great place to go if you don't believe in God."

I smirk," Be thankful they didn't call you a witch and burn you at the stake."

"You'd be surprised at what those nuns would do. I'm still sore from all the bibles they've pelted me with."

"What school are you attending this year?"

He shrugs, "Some remedial school for delinquents like me."

Thank God, he's not attending my school. I feel an immediate relief wash over me. I'll type this bad boy up, hand it to his unfortunate new officer and be on my merry way.

"What officer are you assigned to?" I ask without looking up.

"The head honcho. Chief whats-his-name."

Oh. Hell. No.

Isn't that the kind of information you tell your daughter in advance? How hard is that to write on a sticky note or even a text message? "Dear Ellis, I'll be out of town for two days. There are frozen pancakes in the freezer. Love, Mom. P.S: I'm letting a strange boy live with us for a year."

No wonder she assigned me to profile him! He'll be shacking up across the hall from me hours from now. If this is one of those "can you adapt to a new situation?!" tests I will fail miserably.

"Actually," I drop the pen," The Chief is a woman."

He raises his eyebrows," Oh? Is she hot?"

Sick bastard. I really, really can't stand teenage boys. "She's forty-two and will kick your ass."

I don't even bother typing of the report. I grab the pen and scribble "NO WAY, MOM" on the bottom.

"Thank you for your time," I say behind clenched teeth," You may leave."

He gets ups, winks and mouths the words "call me" before walking away.

I'll be calling him from the living room if I don't convince my mother another way. I call her from Winston's phone and she picks up on the fourth ring.

"Ellis, is that you?" I hear a lot of commotion in the background, "I am very, very busy right now. This better be important."

"Oh, it is. How could you not tell me that you're letting a young Jeffrey Dahmer to live with us?"

Silence. A loud sigh. She finally says," First of all Jeffery Dahmer was a cannibal, not a teenager with a spray can. Second...it was an impulse."

_An impulse?_ "You just just had the sudden urge to let a convict sleep in our guest room?"

"They gave me the folder of all the teens in the program and Wiley, well, he just...reminded me of someone," she murmurs, "Someone I don't want this kid to end up like."

I concur," Are you sure this is a good idea, Mom?"

She laughs, "No, but we'll find that out soon enough!"

I laugh too, "Are you coming back soon?"

I hear mayhem in the background and Mom tells someone," This is bad."

A loud shuffle and she's back on the phone, "I'll be back at the station as soon as possible. Do not leave until I get there, do you understand?"

She sounds frantic and I begin to worry, "Mom, are you okay? What's going on?"

The phone clicks, the dial tone resonates and she's gone.


End file.
